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Hey. I just found this picture of you.

Okay, I didn't just find it. I found it months ago, but that was years after the last time I saw you, a decade after I burned or tore or otherwise trashed all the others. Yanked them from glossy frames.

So, you know, all things relative to the history of us, I basically just found the goddamn picture.

You'll remember it, because you liked it, and we never liked the same pictures of you. I liked your smile, could study for full minutes your crooked front tooth, your slightly large nose. You hated your imperfect face. You liked the pictures where your perfect hair hid it, where your perfect body was all that showed.

Don't interrupt me. Christ. Is it ever my turn to talk?

I was saying, this picture - you'll remember it. I took it on that vacation. I took the camera from you and took it. You always had the camera, you or some fellow tourist, so that we could both be in the shot. God. How many pictures did you take of me? I don't have any of them. I know you didn't keep any. I wonder if those pictures had happiness in them.

But anyway. This picture. That vacation. I took the camera from you while we sat out on that deck on the beach. It was too cold, but you had your shoes off. That's how you were. You were the kind of girl who sat on the wet sand on a cold morning.

I can't remember the film being developed. You must have picked it up. This picture was in some of your old things, one of the shoeboxes you forgot. Why did you pack it all into such tiny boxes? I remember you carrying them out, one under each arm, a thousand trips on long, perfect legs. What would I have needed to say?

Don't answer that. I don't really fucking want to know.

There was another picture. Another picture I took. I remember taking it, but then you picked up the film and you must have sorted it right out. Thrown it right out. That one, and all the pictures of your face caught off guard, when you didn't have your careful smile, your chin carefully tipped. You threw out this other picture I remember, god damn it. It was nice. A footprint in the sand, already half washed out, so we couldn't tell if it was yours or mine.

Okay. Go ahead. Start talking.

Description
Hey. I just found this picture of you.

Okay, I didn't just find it. I found it months ago, but that was years after the last time I saw you, a decade after I burned or tore or otherwise trashed all the others. Yanked them from glossy frames.

So, you know, all things relative to the history of us, I basically just found the goddamn picture.

You'll remember it, because you liked it, and we never liked the same pictures of you. I liked your smile, could study for full minutes your crooked front tooth, your slightly large nose. You hated your imperfect face. You liked the pictures where your perfect hair hid it, where your perfect body was all that showed.

Don't interrupt me. Christ. Is it ever my turn to talk?

I was saying, this picture - you'll remember it. I took it on that vacation. I took the camera from you and took it. You always had the camera, you or some fellow tourist, so that we could both be in the shot. God. How many pictures did you take of me? I don't have any of them. I know you didn't keep any. I wonder if those pictures had happiness in them.

But anyway. This picture. That vacation. I took the camera from you while we sat out on that deck on the beach. It was too cold, but you had your shoes off. That's how you were. You were the kind of girl who sat on the wet sand on a cold morning.

I can't remember the film being developed. You must have picked it up. This picture was in some of your old things, one of the shoeboxes you forgot. Why did you pack it all into such tiny boxes? I remember you carrying them out, one under each arm, a thousand trips on long, perfect legs. What would I have needed to say?

Don't answer that. I don't really fucking want to know.

There was another picture. Another picture I took. I remember taking it, but then you picked up the film and you must have sorted it right out. Thrown it right out. That one, and all the pictures of your face caught off guard, when you didn't have your careful smile, your chin carefully tipped. You threw out this other picture I remember, god damn it. It was nice. A footprint in the sand, already half washed out, so we couldn't tell if it was yours or mine.

Okay. Go ahead. Start talking.